


Sheep in Wolf's Clothing

by valderys



Category: Being Human
Genre: Angst, Community: Apocabigbang, Dubious Consent, First Time, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-07
Updated: 2010-09-07
Packaged: 2017-10-11 13:44:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/113034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valderys/pseuds/valderys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vampires hate werewolves but no-one knows why. When Mitchell starts sensing strange vampires congregating outside their house, he thinks nothing of it, until he realises that it's <i>only</i> outside their house. What do these bestial creatures want? Surely it can't be... George?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sheep in Wolf's Clothing

**Author's Note:**

> This was started before the second series aired, and of course is completely jossed, and an AU besides. However, as I wrote it, I realised that elements from the second series were making their way into the fic because they fitted. So there are a few crossover bits.
> 
> As part of the challenge I also got a fantastic fanmix from the talented : [here](http://valderys.livejournal.com/62823.html#cutid1).

Prologue

Vampirism in England wasn't an endemic disease. In Europe, it ran rife, it was true, particularly among the countries of Eastern Europe, but not on the ancient shores of Albion. Rather like rabies, and other pathogens, the surrounding seas made it just as difficult for vampirism to cross into England, with Britannia ruling the waves indeed. No, it took slavery to bring in such a disease, brought there amidst pain and suffering and chains. There was a reason why so many slaves died on the voyage over, on one ship at the very least, and perhaps on many. The slaves were kept segregated from the masters, there would have been no reason to have noticed anything strange was going on, even if the slavemasters had been looking. Anyway, they wouldn't have known the signs. An ignorant Serbian peasant would have been more knowledgeable than they. Besides, dead slaves were tipped over the side as soon as their fact became known, to stop contagion spreading. The ship's masters would have been horrified to know how little difference _that_ made.

Of course, the vampires that did achieve the shore, did so more dead than alive. They had been driven half-mad with the pain of crossing open water - and it was a _long_ way from Africa. Upon arrival they bit what prey they found indiscriminately in an orgy of feeding. They fell senseless at their victim's feet, and some fed on them in return, using some awful survival instinct. Others were killed, by luck more than judgement, an accidental blow by splintering wooden cudgel, or badly-maintained belaying pin. Most, however, crawled away to hide and heal, dreaming their way through the madness, hidden away so deeply and so secretly, that they were forgotten in the end even by the children they had so carelessly begat.

And so vampirism came to England, to Bristol, as it happened, although it could equally have been an unlucky Liverpool or London. And there were no Serbian peasants to teach anyone the warning signs, or to put up wards on the doors and windows, to grow the appropriate cleansing herbs. And the English vampires grew fat and complacent as the centuries passed.

As for lycanthropy? Nobody could remember when lycanthropy arrived in England, such a brutally useless curse as it was. Modern vampires looked down upon it, although a very few claimed that the African vampires had brought their own form of drugs with them, in much the same way that the Moors had brought hashish to Europe. But modern vampires scoffed at that, such a far-fetched tale, and persecuted the lycanthrope. For such creatures could make them thirst as no other could, and they lashed out at what they did not understand and could not control.

Modern vampires could be said to be quite ignorant, really.

***

"Mitchell," said George, as he was sitting at their cheap formica kitchen table one morning, scratching at it with his thumb, "Are we being… Well, we might not be, I mean I'm the first to admit that I can be a little – just a touch, mind – paranoid, but I thought I saw, but then, it's bound to be my imagination, I mean why would they, although there was that thing with Herrick, after all, and I did threaten people with a chair, and it's made of wood, so maybe…"

"George," said Mitchell, patiently enough, because he was used to George and his tangents, and his tantrums, "What is it?"

Mitchell noticed that George was scratching at a long gouge in the formica. They'd managed to rescue the table after George had transformed in the flat – one of the precious few things they had managed to rescue. Mitchell looked away. He didn't want to be reminded of George in his primal state, and he didn't think George did either, but it was harder for him to ignore, Mitchell supposed.

"I just think, I just wondered… whether we're being stalked by vampires? At all? Again?"

And George's voice had risen, and his glasses had slipped down his nose, which meant that he was really anxious about it, because he was sweaty, and Mitchell blinked drunkenly as George stared at him and then opened his mouth.

"No, George, I don't think we're being stalked by vampires – that's crazy! None of the Bristol nest would dare. Not after what we did. They're licking their wounds and if we're very unlucky they might decide to suck up a bit and lick our boots too."

Then he made a disgusted face, one carefully calculated to make George laugh, to distract him a bit. It didn't work. George didn't smile that often any more, not since Nina left.

He was almost grateful when Annie popped in from outside, literally, something she was doing more and more lately, and asked, "Why are there vampires in our street, Mitchell?"

George looked anxiously smug as Mitchell stalked over to the window and peered outside. There was a dark squat shape on the opposite corner.

That was how it started.

***

It was true. He tried to resist but basically George could ask Mitchell for anything, and Mitchell had a hard time saying no. Guilt could do that to a person, he knew. But George had always smelt so delicious, that Mitchell couldn't help himself - and it wasn't like he indulged every month. For twenty nine or thirty days Mitchell was George's best friend, he looked after him, he supported him, he loved him - from a distance. Then once a month, or less even, when George went to the woods, or to the little basement room, then Mitchell became... something more. He'd been dry for a while now, of course - of people, of humans anyway. But George... After he'd transformed back, when George was lying on the ground all pliant and sated and asleep, well, then Mitchell could take the taste that he'd been promising himself for weeks. Never much, only a sip or two, not even a drink really. And he could hold George in his arms, as he longed to do, but didn't dare the rest of the time. He'd told himself it wasn't really a _thing_. He didn't have a thing for George. He didn't. Really.

But Mitchell couldn't handle George looking at him with those huge eyes either, or Annie staring at him accusingly, trying to hide her worry, so Mitchell went out to confront the vampire across the street. As he walked out of the front door and sucked in his first breath of fresh air, he could sense that faint sizzle-tang that indicated to him the presence of another vampire. It was definitely there, but it was faint, and it felt… riper somehow, more heavy. It seemed like the back of his tongue was coated with something, Mitchell wanted to retch like a cat with a hair-ball.

Mr Simpson - Alan - from no. 39 walked past, and his stale sweat and the fried onions from his lunch cut through the strange alien odour. Mitchell almost turned and followed him when Alan nodded a friendly hello, it felt so normal and welcoming. Alan would be grateful for the attention, would open up his legs and veins with equal fervour, Mitchell was sure of it, after almost a century of experience in such things. As he smiled at him, Mitchell could smell the start of the man's arousal and widened his grin, tipping down his sunglasses with one woollen-clad hand. Alan was gay and in the closet, Mitchell had long ago decided. He would taste of wasted chances, as delicate as fine wine.

His own equilibrium restored, Mitchell turned his attentions back to the alien vampire, who smelt nothing like any of the Bristol nest, or any others that Mitchell had ever come across – not that they were that widely distributed a race. Most cities had a nest these days, of course, but every vampire had a yen to visit the old stamping grounds, which often meant coming back to Bristol. Mitchell had done it himself in the old days, living in London in the Sixties, in Manchester in the Eighties. Still, he had settled back here in Bristol, he and George and Annie – he wasn't tied to it, any more than Annie was tied to the flat any more, but that wasn't the point. It was home in some visceral, fundamental way.

The strange rank smell operated on some visceral level as well, Mitchell decided. It was its very strangeness that made him cough, but it wasn't… unpleasant, as such. Merely different. He was looking forward to confronting this vampire. His stomach was churning, and his fangs wanted to descend, but it was still with eagerness, he thought. There didn't have to be enmity or violence between every one of his kind. Not always. Not even often. Whatever George thought.

The scent was getting heavier on the air, but it was still annoyingly elusive – and Mitchell couldn't see the squat figure any more. A cloudy day, admittedly, and he was wearing sunglasses, but he hadn't seen it go. That was unusual. Others of his kind were subtle and speedy, and could cloud the minds of people who were not paying attention, but none of that applied to him. Mitchell raised his face to the sky and shut his eyes, the better to sense what he didn't understand. He could feel the weak rays of the sun even through heavy cloud, like a rain of little needles just brushing the skin, but he couldn't sense the vampire.

Mitchell put his head back down feeling stupid - what was he? Some kind of sniffer dog? Leave that to George. And then felt a tinge of guilt, even in his own mind – he didn't really think of George like that. Of course he didn't, he valued George, and George knew it too. No, Mitchell was desperately fond of George, loved him even. The precipice he walked with George every day deserved more respect than cheap jokes, even private ones.

Mitchell went back inside already dismissing the puzzle – he'd ask at the funeral parlour. If there was a new visitor in town, Ivan would know it. He could ask him in a few days.

***

But then the pipes broke in the bathroom upstairs, flooding the landing and the corner of the living room, and without a proper landlord – Mitchell still contemplated that with satisfaction – they were forced to fix it themselves, and run around drying everything that had been in the linen closet, and cope with George's panicking about mould spores and bronchitis. Annie had a crisis of confidence in the middle of it all, something to do with ordinary things and how useless she was in a domestic drama, and how she'd never get to wash up again. Mitchell found it incomprehensible, but tried to reassure her anyway. George actually did the washing up. And the laundry, and scrubbed the floor, and everyone felt a lot better after that.

Either way, it was a couple of days before Mitchell could slope down to the funeral parlour to have a word. Ivan was the new head of the vampires, although Mitchell did think that his authority was a touch more ambivalent than Herrick's. More subtle, he decided. Mitchell liked Ivan, and Daisy, and while he wouldn't go so far as to think they were allies, they were a long way from being enemies. Mitchell was grateful to Ivan, who had come back to Bristol at exactly the right time and slotted into the role, just when Mitchell might have been expected to do so, as Herrick's natural heir by conquest and by kinship. Ivan didn't appear to feel threatened by Mitchell's alien ways either, so it was a win-win situation all round, frankly. It had occurred to Mitchell that maybe the strange vampire outside was actually a spy from Ivan, but if that was the case then he'd not done a very good job.

Annie insisted on joining him for the visit. The power crackled between her fingers when she offered, but her eyes were anxious. Mitchell took it for the peace-offering and personal reassurance he knew it was. He hugged her and felt a cool tingle and the delicate drag of grey cotton, almost completely substantial, and beamed. It made him so proud.

The streets were quite empty when Mitchell and Annie finally ventured out. Mitchell thought about it, about what day it was. It seemed a little too quiet for a Wednesday, but he couldn't think why that might be. He and George had had their 'weekend' over the last day or two, free of shifts from the hospital, and they'd had to turn off the electricity because of the flood, so they'd been eating all the defrosting food from the freezer. They hadn't even gone to the local shop for days, and of course, hadn't had the TV on or even the radio. Had an unexpected national event brought everything to a standstill? It felt a bit like the day Princess Diana had died – everybody in quiet mourning, or stunned disbelief, dirges playing on normally cheerful channels. Weird. Mitchell would have asked someone what was up if there had been anyone to ask.

Their footsteps echoed across the street as they walked to the funeral parlour. Mitchell tried to spot the look-out that should have been in place, but he couldn't see one. Was Ivan slipping? Already? But the eerie silence continued even after they pushed the door open and entered the carpeted hush of the shop. Annie exchanged a worried glance with Mitchell, and as one they walked into the silence, making no noise themselves, not even breathing, since it was unnecessary for Mitchell unless he was talking, and obviously Annie had no need at all.

There was the dark sober carpet that incidentally would show no bloodstains, and the bright walls that scrubbed well, Mitchell happened to know, but that whitewashed even more easily, and the panelled wood just for the look of the thing. There were no people. No vampires. Nobody at all. Until they rounded the wooden desk and found a young blond girl with her throat torn out, blood pooled in a sticky puddle beneath her. The puddle was far too small.

It was unexpected and Annie gasped. It seemed too loud, and Mitchell shot round, expecting to see more of the nest boiling out of doorways prepared to defend themselves, to avenge the demise of one of their own. Even in death Mitchell could establish that much, the metallic bitter scent in the air was from nothing human. But nothing moved.

He bent down, not kneeling, careful not to get blood on his clothes, feeling the pulse beat in his throat, even at the smell of cold, congealed blood. The girl was dressed as a secretary, in a cheap skirt-suit. He didn't know her. A new recruit since Ivan's time Mitchell supposed, and frowned at that. He hated the idea that still more young girls were going through what he'd put Lauren through. But this was nothing like normal practice. And certainly not in the nest, in public, no less. What the _fuck_ was going on?

Annie hovered, and then gestured abortively, and then gestured again, her usual uncertainty made manifest.

"Umm. I could. I could go and have a look?" she said, at last, and Mitchell stared at the door into the rest of the place, to the basement, and all the rooms he knew were there. There was nothing moving, but Mitchell felt a strange sense of urgency nonetheless. Annie would be quicker, after all, and they couldn't hurt her. He nodded, and with a tiny grimace of apology, she went. Just there one second and gone the next - yet one more power she had acquired since refusing the Door.

Mitchell followed, because he couldn't just sit there, not moving, it wasn't in him, but he hadn't gone far, just into the corridor, when she blipped back into existence. He jumped, and pretended he hadn't, because when did that get less than nerve-wracking? Never, he had the feeling. He swallowed, when he looked at her face, and Annie tried to pat his shoulder, a feeling of chill brushing against him like cold rice pudding, and that wasn't a good sign either.

"It's... Well, I don't know really. It's bad though. Umm. I can't not call it bad, but they weren't your friends really, were they? It wasn't as though you _liked_ them, or anything... Was it? It's..."

She was twisting the sleeves of her grey cardigan together, and Mitchell felt a kind of panic take over, at the dread in Annie's voice, and he left her, just started running. Down the corridor, the plush carpet under his feet swallowing up any sounds, and through all the doors in between.

And that was how he found them - with his bones singing from running. If he'd have been human, his chest would have been heaving for breath, but he ignored that part of his usual disguise, and just stared, the horror slightly removed, but still there, still present. Mitchell didn't even know how this should have taken him, it was so unlikely an event, so impossible, beyond the scope of his comprehension. Even when there had been attempted purges by humans in the past - rare and abortive, and never more than marginally successful, Mitchell remembered Herrick telling him once, a laugh in his voice, at the presumption - even then... there had never been a slaughter like this.

The smell of bitter blood was in every room. Bitter non-human blood, and then in the basement, in a room that had been locked once, some stale coppery human blood. All the bodies with the marks of teeth, their throats torn out, or their limbs ripped and mangled and gnawed. Whatever had done this had not been discriminatory. It was funny, really. It was insane. Mitchell hadn't liked them. He hadn't trusted them. But it was a bloody terrible way to discover - that they had been his people, after all.

***

Not all his vampires were dead. Mitchell clung to that fact as he and Annie walked home. He didn't know what had done this. He didn't understand why it had happened, or who had perpetrated this. The bites hadn't been human, but they weren't much bigger than that, and they hadn't been werewolf bites either. Some kind of werecats? Surely he would have seen or heard of such things in a hundred years? The Beast of Bodmin, come a bit closer to the sea?

The streets were still quiet, unnaturally so, but Mitchell hardly paid attention. Not all the vampires were dead. He'd counted the bodies, and some were missing. Mr Higginson, and Cara, and little Robbie Morris, for a start. And others, he thought, feeling guilty, feeling like he should know all their names, all of them, from highest to lowest, like Herrick had.

Mitchell shook his head. He wasn't Herrick. He didn't have responsibilities like that. He didn't need to revenge himself for all those deaths. He might need to hunt the beast down in order to be safe, him and George and Annie. Maybe. But that was as far as it went, and even that might not be necessary, they lived quietly, after all, they didn't need to stir up trouble. Mitchell's guts roiled, and just for a second, he caught the stink of Ypres in his nostrils, the stench of old death, all sickly sweet, his mates, his platoon, or the enemy, death didn't care. You all smelled the same in the end. He couldn't do anything about this slaughter any more than he could have stopped the War, all those years ago. That's what he kept telling himself, all the way home.

Afterwards, Mitchell beat himself up about it. He should have noticed. It was the shock, he supposed, but it was still an amateur mistake, a cock-up. Annie had been quiet all the way home, and that was unusual in itself - if Mitchell hadn't been wallowing in misery, he'd have noticed _that_, at least. And the streets were so _quiet_, but not empty, Mitchell would have sworn to that, he could sense the blood pounding enticingly through veins behind every twitching curtain, as though he could turn his head and just smell them out, a smorgasbord laid out and all for him, elusive and delicious. But he smelled that kind of temptation all the time, it was normal, it was _ignorable_ \- it had to be.

No, what he missed was the heavy rank vampire aroma building up again. That almost animalistic perfume, that wasn't unpleasant, but merely strange, so he didn't think about it, because - vampires. They weren't a threat. Not to him. Not to Annie. Not to...

The two of them rounded the corner into their road, and there were hunched shapes there, more than one, lurking behind lampposts, or perhaps not hunched at all, simply smaller, more squat. Powerful. In the road, and up against the house - against the door, pounding on it, pulling chunks of it away with splintering great crashing noises.

George.

Mitchell's heart was suddenly in his mouth - if the blood could have rushed from his face, it would have done. He hadn't thought of George, left all alone. So bloody selfish, as he was, not thinking things through, just... just...

"Go," he said to Annie, and she vanished like a soap bubble. And that left him on his own.

His teeth were chattering, because he would have to face them all down, to get back to George, to get into his _house_, where he lived, and how fucking dare they - these strangers, muscling in onto his territory, and maybe he didn't act like a vampire most of the time, but that didn't mean he didn't feel it. Mitchell realised that his fangs had come down and his eyesight was sharper, more defined; they would have changed colour, he knew. He stalked forward - fuck, he hated the cliché but it was the only thing to do - and bared his fangs at the strangers. They must know it was his place, they would be able to smell it, and yet here they were. It wasn't right.

As he got closer Mitchell realised that although the house had been attacked, despite not having a door any more, just a gaping hole, no-one had encroached, and he grinned fiercely in satisfaction. They couldn't get inside without an invitation, of course, they were close enough to normal in that, if nothing else. George was safe. It gave him the confidence to keep going, to snarl, and assume that matters of territory and blood, of tradition and code, would be honoured, even with these foreigners. It was a good assumption, a rational one. It happened to be wrong.

***

It was the howl that first gave it away. It wasn't like George on one of _those_ nights, a pure, clean ululation, no it was a broken scream, that rose and fell from a dozen different throats, a sound of madness. It started as Mitchell went towards them, a challenge perhaps, or a tactic to keep him off-balance. It worked, he had to admit. As Mitchell moved forward, and he could finally see the other vampires, it made him horribly uneasy, as though, maybe, just maybe, he had miscalculated? They were dark of skin, it appeared, although even that was hard to tell, because dirt clung to them, to their squat bodies, to their long limbs, as though they were a different kind of cliché, one that dragged itself up and out of its grave, coughing up soil and tearing at anything animal or human alike until its hunger had been satisfied. Their eyes seemed all white in the darkness of their faces, and their eyeballs rolled and twitched, seemingly focused on nothing for more than a few seconds. They gibbered, almost, for fuck's sake, and Mitchell found himself shivering, even as his steps slowed down, and he tried to meet their gaze. It was impossible, but how could they have a proper trial for dominance without eye contact?

Of course, they couldn't. But they didn't want a 'trial for dominance', did they, Mitchell thought. He'd been stupid, and short-sighted, and it was going to get him killed. As the - _pack_ \- moved in, he began to crouch a little, the better to spring, to put his centre of gravity closer to the ground, and he bared his fangs. He was twenty yards from his own front door and it might as well have been a mile.

When the first one sprang Mitchell was ready. He punched it out of the air, judging the distance to within a hairsbreadth, and already turning to face the next. Its mouth was open showing Mitchell dirty yellow fangs, bigger and lot longer than his own, and it didn't seem to have any kind of strategy, just a kind of mindless persistence, as though it was made of instinct, nothing more. Mitchell pushed it staggering into yet another of them, and whirled to face two more who had their hands held before them like weapons - indeed their fingernails were long and sharp, more like talons than nails. As they leaped for him, he spun away, trying to get the front door, and their claws ripped through his shirt, scoring a long line of scratches along his side. Mitchell could feel them like parallel lines of hot fire traced onto his skin.

There were other noises past the furious screaming of these vampires, and his own growls, he could hear sharp pitched human noises, but he had to ignore them, had to, he couldn't afford the attention, because more were moving in, he was almost surrounded, and their scent was cloying the air, thick and hot and sweet, it almost made him want to howl himself, and that was strange, that was _weird_, but still, it didn't matter. He thought he might be able to make it, he thought he could, just about... There was a searing pain in his leg, and Mitchell lashed out, kicking hard, but it was still too late. The creature who had sunk a bite into his calf rolled away howling, but it had allowed another of them to pounce, it threw him down onto the ground, too easily, dammit, but he'd been off-balance. It crouched on his chest, and Mitchell had time to think, well, now, it comes now, of all times - it could be worse. He looked into the thing's mad rolling eyes, and realised it still wore some scraps of something muddy and ripped, and had hair even, he thought, so threaded through with mud and stones and blood that it was like a solid helmet. But most of all, most importantly, and he couldn't really believe it, but Mitchell knew, this close to its slaver and its stink, he couldn't fail to smell it on them, he knew who had murdered his people. He _knew_. And it didn't do him any good at all.

***

It was funny. Mitchell had heard how your last seconds could feel like hours, he'd heard that and they'd both speculated about it, he and George, as they'd pushed mops desultorily across the hospital floor. Mitchell might have mentioned that when he'd _died_ \- undied, George said - it had felt like hours, because it had been hours, and then he'd shut up, because talking about it, even joking about it, brought it all to mind again, the cold, and his own helplessness, and the distant blast of the mortars. Mitchell hadn't expected that. So this... Well, he thought he knew what to expect, and he'd had a good long life, so.

The snarling stink of uncleaned teeth descending on his neck, on the arm he threw up to desperately protect himself, all of that, suddenly vanished in a sliding boom of not-sound. The strange vampire was knocked clean away, along with all his brethren, and Mitchell's ears were ringing from an abrupt kind of absence. He looked round, as much as he could from his position on the floor and saw that Annie was outside their house, on the pavement, her hand extended like some kind of wizard or something. Mitchell wanted to cheer, she looked... Like an avenging angel, he thought, someone extraordinary, and like his friend, all at the same time. She looked beautiful.

He shook his head to try and get his ears to work, and then he tried to move, to get up, until searing pain hit him from a number of directions at once. He collapsed back to the floor, biting back a groan. He heard a slapping noise, one he knew - George's slippers as he slobbed around the kitchen on their days off - and it made Mitchell frantic, scrabbling to get to his feet, watching the vampires struggle to get up, to get to him and finish tearing out his throat presumably, and all Mitchell could taste was the sharp, bitter gag of fear in the back of his throat. He could cope, they could have him, he didn't matter, not like George did - because George couldn't take one blow from one of these, they were _strong_, they were feral...

Then George himself was there, supporting him, helping him up, and Mitchell was sick with terror, but he couldn't get himself to move, to shift himself any faster. He saw one of the beasts begin to rush the pair of them, and almost closed his eyes because he didn't want to watch - not George! - but he couldn't be that much of a coward. He saw the creature raise its twisted clawed limbs to batter George to one side - and then it seemed to sniff the air instead, deeply, through broad nostrils that flared and released like some obscene version of an animal documentary. Horror was edging its way into Mitchell's consciousness, he'd been good at holding it off up to now, but it was getting stronger, sliding its way in there. He found he couldn't scream, even when George began dragging him back to the house, expecting them to be torn apart at any second. And yet they weren't.

Over George's shoulder, Mitchell watched the vampire who hadn't attacked. It hovered behind them, at their shoulder, still breathing in giant snorts, but not getting closer. It didn't shift relative position in all the time George took to get Mitchell into the house, and only fell back as the invisible barrier of _home_ enclosed itself around both of them, Annie hovering now inside.

The strangest thing of all was the way it seemed to moan, in pain, or disappointment, like a dog that'd lost its master, its hands jerking spasmodically, even as the two of them disappeared inside. No, he changed his mind. The strangest thing of all was that Mitchell almost seemed to feel sorry for it. But only almost.

***

"What," said George, "What the _hell_?"

Mitchell was sat on the kitchen chair, his trousers half-rolled up, and Annie was hovering, dabbing at the exposed wound with a tea-towel. He felt faint, but wasn't about to admit it.

George was pacing, and Mitchell loved to watch George pace, his eyes half-lidded, he stared as George walked up and down, up and down. There was more room than usual. The kitchen table was currently in the living room, serving as a makeshift door.

"I don't know," said Mitchell, again, refusing to be impatient, he ached too much to start yelling, and he didn't even know what he'd be shouting about. "They killed all the other vampires, well, nearly all. They would have killed me."

He said it in a matter-of-fact kind of a way, even though the sharpness of the fight was getting a little fuzzy around the edges now. He was marvelling that he had survived at all. "Why am I still alive?"

Annie smiled and shrugged, "It's a miracle? You're going to lead us out of here like some kind of messiah?" She giggled. "The Miracle of the Shoe."

George stopped pacing and grinned, his face lighting up. "He's not the Messiah, he's a very naughty boy."

Mitchell stared at them in disbelief, and they sobered.

"Sorry," said Annie, "It's just. It's so hard to believe. It's like we're in a bad zombie movie, and I hate watching horror. I just thought, something to lighten us up, something to make us smile... Sorry."

"No," George said, staring at Mitchell, "You're right. We need to think about this. They were going to tear you apart too, but something stopped them. There must be something special about you Mitchell. What makes you different to the other vampires?"

Mitchell watched as the two little parallel grooves in George's forehead grew deeper, as he thought about it, and Mitchell felt a kind a panic then, far beyond the disgust and confusion he was feeling at the predators outside, these strange misshapen vampires that had struck at his world so suddenly - if George worked it out... If George worked out that it was nothing to do with Mitchell, that it was in fact _George_ himself, something in him that had held them off. What would he do? Mitchell couldn't lose him, he just couldn't...

"It must be because you don't drink any more!" said George, triumphantly, his glasses flashing in the light that came in through the kitchen window. "You know, blood, rargh, all that. They don't seem to be attacking humans either, do they? What else could it be! That must be it."

"Yeah," said Mitchell, light-headed suddenly, in relief, "Yeah, that must be it."

Annie stared at him then, his blood on her hands, her eyes huge.

"George?" Mitchell asked softly, "Could you go upstairs and see if you can count how many of them there are? While Annie gets me patched up."

"What? Yeah, ok. I'll just," said George, poking his thumb over his shoulder, looking happy to be doing something, to have worked something useful out.

After he'd clattered away upstairs, Mitchell turned back to Annie, who was biting her lip.

"That's not it, though, is it?" she said, "I know that's not it. I saw you both. They would have torn you apart and chewed on the bits. Wouldn't they?"

"Yes," he agreed, "Spat out the bones."

They both turned to look towards the stairs, where faint signs of shifting furniture could be heard, and swearing too.

"Don't tell him," said Mitchell suddenly, "He'll do something impulsive, crazy, something he shouldn't. You know George."

Annie had put her head a little on one side, as though trying to understand a foreign language.

"I know George," she said slowly, "If you think that's best, I won't. But Mitchell…"

He shook his head. "Let's just see how it goes for now, yeah. It might all blow over, they might just vanish again. Stranger things have happened."

He didn't need Annie's sceptical look to convince him how mad and hopeless he sounded. But mad and hopeless was better than dead or dying, so he'd had worse days.

***

It didn't look like the feral vampires were attacking humans, or so it seemed, until they turned on the TV. Then there were news stories of the terrible gang war that was taking place in Bristol. There were people who had been attacked by terrible, vicious fighting dogs. There was a call to put down every last pit-bull in the country, and George sucked his teeth, noisily, at that. He had a subscription to the RSPCA.

"Gangs?" Annie said, her mouth round like a fish, "I didn't know there were gangs in Bristol, it's certainly gone downhill since my day."

Mitchell looked at her. "We don't have _gangs_. It's the vampires." He didn't say, you numpty. "And what do you mean 'your day' - you've only been dead two years! Before you ask, we don't have viciously trained pit-bulls either."

"Which is why a blanket call for breed euthanasia is just wrong," said George.

Mitchell counted to ten, and then said, "People have been advised to remain indoors. And if they do, they'll be safe."

He didn't add, that if they themselves also stayed indoors they'd be safe, it went without saying, he thought. Mitchell watched Annie wring her hands again, and George pace. Again. It might be a long couple of days.

"I wonder what people can do to stop them," George said, as he took the latest cup of tea from Annie.

By the end of the week, they had the answer. Nothing very much. It was the most disappointing apocalypse ever. Bristol had been relegated in the news spots too, gang warfare had to take second place to the latest attempted political coup on the Prime Minister. George sputtered like a kettle at that, because people were dying here, although not as many as they'd feared. Mitchell didn't know if the reports were accurate, however - he suspected that no-one knew the true figure. The police had evacuated certain areas of Bristol, so they claimed, and others were still apparently under siege. The fact that their house was in one of them surprised nobody.

They hadn't exactly been prepared for a siege - they ran out of milk early on. Annie couldn't make tea any more, not proper tea, which meant she wandered around vaguely unhappy, like the haunt she hadn't been for some time. So George confiscated the tea bags soon after that, in case they ran out of those too, and to stop Annie looking so sad. He and Mitchell had discovered they vastly preferred her irritable rather than mopey.

Looking out of the window soon became a favourite pastime for all of them, along with counting the food they had left in the cupboards. There was always one of the feral vampires in the street, often more than one, watching the house, their squat bodies looming in the twilight or the dawn alike. Sometimes there was the twitch of a curtain further down, but they could never be sure. Mitchell's policy of waiting them out clearly wasn't working, but no-one wanted to be the first to bring it up. They had no other plans.

Mitchell could hear George's stomach rumble. He was staring at the last custard cream, occasionally taking a nibble out of it, making it last as long as possible. It made Mitchell anxious and smug at the same time, knowing that he'd been putting his share back in the packet when George wasn't looking, so George would have more food, would be able to hold out longer. But he did walk through to the living room so he wouldn't have to see it. Starvation wouldn't kill Mitchell, he was certain. He was pretty sure. He'd never had to test it before.

Mitchell couldn't believe he was already thinking in terms of starvation, but it was true. And really, there was actually only one person in their house who needed to eat - but Mitchell hated to think what it was like for the other families in their street. Now he himself was off ordinary food, his own natural cravings, that he struggled against all the time, were becoming sharper. He could smell the beat of frightened human life in the houses next to them, and the pull, the lure of it, was becoming stronger every day. He thought his range was growing too, he was sensing their heartbeats from further and further away - and Mitchell didn't like to sleep too much either, these days, because he dreamed red and bloody dreams.

There was a movement out of the corner of his eye and he spun round, already feeling his eyes darken, his fangs beginning to drop, before he realised it was only Annie. His heart was beating fast, and he felt shaky, dizzy.

Annie folded her arms. "We can't keep on like this."

Mitchell laughed and shrugged, "We can't do anything else."

"You're dead on your feet and George is so stir crazy that he's begun to alphabetize the spice rack." She thought for a moment. "Actually, I'm surprised he didn't do it before."

Mitchell smiled and waited for the little black spots to subside. "We're all right."

Annie walked over and pushed him. He swayed - too heavily - and then sat down on the sofa. Even her cold spongy touch was too much for him to resist. He tried to make it look as though he would have sat down anyway.

"No, we're not," said Annie, and hauled up the leg of his jeans, a baggier pair than normal, because, well, he could admit that - it hurt when he thought about it. The looser fabric brushed against the wound less.

They both stared down at the bite injury. Which wasn't healing, however much Mitchell wanted to believe that it was. A drop of blackish blood oozed out and rolled down his leg before soaking into his sock, following the trail already blazed by many others before it.

"Bloody hell!" George's voice was more highly-pitched even than normal, and Mitchell winced. "You didn't tell me you were still hurt. Why haven't you healed? Is it like that attack from Herrick, with the stake? Do you need blood?"

"I'll be fine," said Mitchell, staring at Annie under his brows, willing her not to say anything.

"What? What?" George was going a bit pink now, from indignation, from pure Georgeness, and Mitchell wanted to touch, to smile, or fight the world for him. "You do need blood, don't you? Why didn't you tell me!"

"It's not a big deal. Leave it, will you."

George plumped himself down on the sofa next to him. He smelled of custard creams and warmth and George. Mitchell's mouth watered.

"I will not," said George, "You are not going to play the martyr about this, we're all suffering."

Annie reached out and patted their hands, she felt colder than normal, Mitchell thought, unless it was his own body temperature that was dropping. It was possible.

"He's been dripping blood slowly, every day, for a week. I didn't know the human body had so much," she said, "And he's running out of socks."

Mitchell opened his mouth to ask why she'd betrayed him like this, but she was staring at him with a 'you idiot' expression, and he closed his mouth again. He wasn't in a fit state for an argument, that much was true. "It doesn't matter," he muttered weakly and turned away.

"But it does," said George, and began determinedly to unbutton his shirt, "We all have to stay strong to get through this, and that includes you."

Involuntarily, Mitchell found his eyes being drawn back to the expanse of pale neck that George was exposing - he was already feeling light-headed so it was hard to tell if there was any extra effect, but his fangs were itching, and there was saliva flooding his mouth. He clenched his hands into fists, where they rested on his knees, and made to get up. It was Annie who pushed him down again.

"No. You need this," she said, her eyes huge, and her mouth anxious. "We need you fixed, Mitchell."

And he needed this too, Mitchell thought, he needed it far too much. So much so that he couldn't possibly let...

George had opened his shirt halfway down his chest now, and Mitchell could smell him even more strongly, he could hear as George's heartbeat began to speed up, and then George reached out and tugged Mitchell flush to his side. He couldn't help it, Mitchell grabbed his arm, thumb resting on George's wrist, and then he could feel it too, the pulse beating away under the translucent skin. George tipped his head to one side, inviting, and Mitchell was so hungry, and George was right there, just as he'd imagined him in his wildest fantasies. Of course, he hadn't usually imagined Annie there too, but it hardly mattered, because there was red creeping in at the corners of his vision now as he tried to control himself, because he loved George so much, and he didn't want to hurt him. You hurt him every month you steal this, and then pretend you don't, a little voice whispered inside Mitchell's head, but he could barely hear it, could barely do anything but stare at George's neck, watching him swallow, his Adam's apple bobbing in his nervousness.

It felt natural in the end. As soon as Mitchell's fangs touched his skin, legitimately, openly, in the daytime even, George moaned. It felt more intimate to Mitchell in that moment than a kiss might have, although he longed to kiss him too. He'd wanted this for months, or longer than that, years even, and now the moment was here, he didn't care if Annie knelt at their feet, or if a brass band marched through their living room, all that mattered was the taste of George under his tongue, the feel of him in his arms, the way he went loose and pliable as he bit him, letting Mitchell do what he liked, take all he wanted, because he was Mitchell's, all of him, not Nina's, not Annie's, not anyone but Mitchell's. He could have fought the world for George in that instant, he was so strong and powerful - and still had the clarity of purpose to know when to draw gently away.

That was the strangest thing. How his mind was so crystal sharp, his body satisfied, completely sated as never before. It was so much better than the furtive tastes he'd allowed himself on the nights after George's transformations, incredibly better than any of the meals he'd indulged in back when he was drinking blood for real. It was as though he was comparing sawdust to caviar, it was a... revelation.

Annie was staring at his leg, and Mitchell knew it had healed. There was a hint of dark pink on her cheeks and that was a new thing, that made him smile - who knew that ghosts could blush? He grinned even wider, from the sheer joy of life, and from wonder, because however deep in shit they were, he couldn't help it - he felt wonderful.

Mitchell turned to George then, realising he was still holding his wrist, and swiped his thumb across the inside in a rough caress. Mitchell's grin couldn't contain his exuberance, he wanted to share it, he wanted to rub himself all over George, to bathe in his scent, to claim him completely, but his habits of mind were holding him in good stead, he restrained himself to that gentle caress. But his good mood began to falter as he looked at George. He looked dazed, out of it, he was lying back on the sofa and he wasn't moving.

Mitchell didn't know how he knew it, but he hadn't taken too much, he knew he hadn't. It wasn't like with humans, there had been no lust that carried you away in a killing frenzy - with George, it had been fantastic, but Mitchell had known exactly what he was doing. George should be fine. However, it didn't stop the edges of panic beginning to assault his senses, as he began to doubt himself, as he began to wonder, and Mitchell tugged desperately at the hand he held, hoping for a response.

Slowly, lazily, George opened his eyes. His pupils were blown wide, as though he was high on the greatest trip of his life. He blinked at Mitchell, seeming confused, and then Mitchell could see it, the moment when he connected to the world again, because his hand suddenly tightened its grip, and George surged forward, locking his lips to Mitchell's, who was too surprised to protest, or prevent it. Not that he wanted to, but this… didn't feel right. This wasn't George – was it? Surely, this too was something from his wildest fantasies, something he didn't deserve, a coercion of some kind… Fuck, but George tasted good. And Mitchell moaned into his mouth.

They were interrupted by the sound of a throat being cleared in a pointed way. A feminine, irritable, embarrassed noise, that gave Mitchell goose-bumps, and caused him to jerk away from George, who made a little whimper of protest and tried to follow Mitchell with his lips.

"Don't mind me," said Annie, "I'm only a ghost, part of the furniture really. No-one you need to consider, after all."

The spots of colour on her cheeks were deeper now, and Mitchell swiped at his mouth, in reflected embarrassment, and then licked his lips, to remember the taste.

"Sorry," he muttered, his gaze drawing itself back to George. He wasn't though.

George was still lying in a blissed out heap, and he hadn't let go of Mitchell's hand. His eyes were half-lidded now, staring at him. "George?" Mitchell tried.

"You didn't tell me it was like that," George whispered, "All the angst, and the horror, and the blood, you told me all about that - but not this, not this feeling. You should have told me, Mitchell. It makes a difference, dying in bliss. It really does."

"But it's not like that," said Mitchell, feeling helpless, "With other people, it's not like that. Only with you."

"It's like the wolf feels it too," said George, "It's like its anger, its hunger has been drawn away, been fed along with you somehow. Bloody hell, I feel good. So bloody good."

And Mitchell could only hold on helplessly to George's hand as he lay there blinking at him - and realise that he could think clearly again now, finally, because he wasn't starving any more. And that he couldn't possibly have George starving any more either, or allow Annie to watch them suffer, or... He had to do something, he had to save them.

And that's when Mitchell thought that he came up with his plan.

***

 

"We're going to break into other people's houses? Isn't that, like, illegal?"

George was back to normal, or as normal as he got. Mitchell resisted putting out his hand to squeeze George's shoulder, which meant he was back to normal too, wanting to touch and making himself stop.

"Yes, George, it's illegal," he said, "But then, so is being trapped in our house by a psychopathic bunch of vampiric nutters and watching your mates starve to death."

George snorted as he eyed the back wall of their attic - or it might have been the dust, it was hard to tell. But then he sat back onto his heels to study it, and leaned into Mitchell's shoulder, as though unconsciously. Mitchell resisted the urge to put his arm around George, feeling the warmth of him through the cotton of his shirt. He forcibly dragged his attention back to the task at hand.

Mitchell gestured at Annie. "Go on then."

She bit her lip, but obligingly vanished for a few seconds before popping back into existence. "It's just an attic - nothing special. A couple of boxes but they don't look heavy."

Mitchell looked at George, who was clutching an axe, and took a deep breath. Mitchell was wielding a lump hammer. It was amazing what you could find in the cupboard under the stairs. It didn't take very long for the partition to come down, which was just a bit of plasterboard, as Mitchell had suspected. These houses had been built in a long row - and sometimes the partitions between them, particularly in the attics, were shoddy. He lived on the corner of a shoddy row of houses - which somehow didn't surprise him, however useful it was now. He waved George forward, and when he looked surprised, said, "I haven't been invited. You'll have to go."

"Now look," said George, "I'm not going to run away and save myself, however much you might want to play the martyr - I'm just not going to let you."

Mitchell gave in and squeezed George's arms, feeling the muscle move under his fingers, as he pushed George gently through the hole. "Thanks. But the house is empty because they're away on holiday, so you can't make them invite me in. Remember, we were meant to water their pot-plants? Here, take the hammer with you."

George looked like he was going to protest, but instead he scrambled through the hole. Mitchell didn't want to tell him that actually he wasn't able to leave, that if Mitchell could sense the vampires outside, then they almost certainly could sense him in turn. And that they were waiting him out. There was a cluster of vampires stuck closer than glue here in this little suburb of Bristol, what else could it mean?

That was his primary reason, the reason he acknowledged to himself, but there was also his more secret reason, a truth that had been gnawing away at him from the very beginning of this affair - that maybe it wasn't him at all. Maybe his giant ego didn't want to think about it, but in the deepest, darkest, most roiling parts of his psyche, Mitchell was prepared to contemplate it. He hadn't let Annie acknowledge anything, but he knew, he really did, that this time round it might not be all about him. It might, in fact, be George that they were after. He couldn't let that happen.

So if that was in fact the case, then it was best that he got George as far away from here as possible.

He looked at Annie, who was still biting her lip, and staring at him.

"Will it be ok?" she asked, and Mitchell shrugged.

"Keep an eye on him yeah?" he asked, and she nodded, and smiled, and then reached out and held his hands, loosening the fingers. Mitchell realised he'd been clasping them together so hard there were little white crescent moons indented in the flesh. So perhaps his casual air wasn't holding together quite as well as he'd thought. Damn it.

She patted his hands again, cool and tingling, and then she was gone. Mitchell was left alone. And that usually went so well.

***

 

Mitchell had never thought of himself as the curtain-twitching type - lace and chintz weren't exactly his style - but he was so nervous, he was hard put not to keep peering down the street every few minutes. He'd tried pacing, like George liked to do on occasion, but it didn't seem to work as well for him. Not to mention it reminded him of George, which was unbearable at the moment, as he didn't know what was happening, how far had he got, who else had he got out, if he was safe, or anything.

So he sat down, and flicked over the pages of a magazine, an interview with Paul Wilson from the Real Hustle should be enough to hold his attention… No, it was no good. Mitchell sat on the sofa, his head hanging down, and tried to stop his muscles twitching. He concentrated on it, trying to stay calm, and slowly, eventually, he realised that the less stressed he was, the more he was able to sense with his other abilities, that once the jangling of his body was reduced to a minimum, he could feel what was happening at last.

The fizz on the back of his tongue indicated that the strange vampires were still there, strongly, but perhaps - not quite as strongly as they were? Were they moving away at last? The scent and beat of human life around him was lessening too, their heartbeats further away, which perhaps meant that the plan was working, although it made Mitchell unexpectedly full of a swooping loneliness. He'd held himself apart from people for years, because he'd had to, but things had been different lately, and emergencies like this brought home to him how much he was still a part of humanity, still involved, however much he'd once tried to deny it. He wished he could have gone with them. He didn't want to be left behind.

Then, at last, Mitchell tried to feel for George, and almost swore aloud, because it was so easy. The rich, warm sense of George slipped over him like a blanket, and Mitchell revelled in it, stretching like a cat in front of the fire. George was a little anxious, Mitchell could tell, and his breathing was elevated, but he wasn't stressed, he wasn't in danger.

Or was he? Suddenly Mitchell could tell that George's adrenaline had spiked, that his fight or flight had kicked in, that he was fearful, but that he was also angry. Mitchell didn't know how he knew such things - he never had before - but it set his own nerves on fire, and he couldn't help himself, he jumped up and went to the window again, peering through the curtain just as nosily as Mrs Powell from no.37. He felt his own palms begin to sweat, because it was worse than he'd thought - the strange vampires were gone. Completely vanished. He knew they were closer than that, but what his eyes were showing him, and what his senses were telling him, were not compatible, unless… George. He's been peripherally sensing George all along.

Fuck. Mitchell dithered for about a second, but only a second, because he could also feel George doing something very similar, psyching himself up to do something that Mitchell was sure he wouldn't like. He opened the front door, and stared carefully around - there was nothing. So then Mitchell stepped outside, however stupid he knew he was being, and took a deep breath of fresh air, that he hadn't tasted for over a week. It was fantastic. It was glorious. Then he looked around - using all his senses - for George, who was outside in the street too.

It was a stand-off - it would have been a tableau, but the images were still moving. George was trying his best to look menacing, shifting a step here, a step there - he was saying something too, offering bravado and threats, Mitchell hoped, but knowing they'd be terrible, because this was George and he was utterly incapable of being properly menacing. And George was desperately trying to keep between the vampires and their neighbours, as they streamed out of the last front door in their row of terrace houses. There was Mrs Powell, looking small and terrified, and Alan Simpson, his shoulders hunched in his brown coat - Mitchell could almost smell the onions. And there was Alfred, and Joyce, and even Lee, all of whom had drunk their tea and eaten their biscuits at one time or another, and now their sociability was being paid back, in the lives that they owed George for his… sacrifice.

Because it was a sacrifice - Mitchell had been in enough battles to know that. George was keeping between the frightened gaggle of humanity, and the on-coming pack of vampires, but it wasn't going to be enough. They didn't seem to want to hurt George, which was allowing him to be as effective as he was, and Annie was trying to fill the gaps, but surely there were too many of them? Mitchell knew her power had grown, he wasn't even concentrating and he could still sense the cool tingle of her anger, but even so, could it be enough? Without even consciously thinking about it, Mitchell broke into a run, his trainers slapping the ground, but he knew it wouldn't help, they hadn't been fazed by him last time, he'd only been a nuisance, just another ordinary vampire who they could dispatch easily, he couldn't stop them - but it didn't prevent him legging it as fast as he possibly could.

He was still more than half the street away when they pounced. Their filthy arms reaching out, grasping for George, as the mass of them pushed forward as one. There were wails and screams, and George tried to wildly punch one of them to no effect, or perhaps one hunched figure stumbled and went down, but it was too little, far, far too late. There was a snarl, like an animal's, and Mitchell realised it was coming from his own throat, as he lost sight of George, as he disappeared into the seething, writhing horde of them.

Until he tore into the pack at last, punching indiscriminately, kicking, his fangs bared, his eyes black, looking for George, always for George. But it did no good. They didn't fight back, he could have been a phantom, or a child, for all the notice they paid, and somehow, impossibly, the pack of them began to melt away. He turned, and they vanished, he turned back, and more had gone. He was furious, and past terrified, because he didn't recognise this power, for power it must be - something his vampires had never had, or never learnt. He turned once more and his fists sunk into a cool, almost gelatinous form and Mitchell stopped at last, breathing hard, as Annie caught him into her arms.

The people, their neighbours, stared or whimpered, or curled up, as their nature took them. But they weren't dead. They were all there and intact. It was some kind of miracle, Mitchell thought, once he was capable of paying such attention once more.

But he didn't care much really, in the end. Because George was gone.

***

 

"You have to stop," said Annie. "You have to do something!"

Mitchell stared at her blearily. Which did she want him to do first, to stop, or to start? It made no sense to him. He lifted the bottle and took another swig. He thanked all the stars in the sky, and all the deities he could make up, that alcohol could still affect vampires. That seemed like a unlikely blessing in this fucked-up world.

Annie was wringing her hands again. Mitchell really must tell her to stop doing that, it wasn't a good look on her, showed all her nerves, no good for poker, she'd never win a hand like that... Fuck, but he was drunk. At least that was a good thing.

They were alone, in an empty house, in an empty suburb of Bristol, their neighbours presumably all being cooed over in some lovely A&amp;E Department, all his vampires dead, or in comas so deep it made no difference, George gone... Mitchell took another drink. Was it the end of the fucking world, or what? So much for his grand ideas of living like a human being again. At last. What a joke.

He was all out of ideas, apart from the one that said downing a bottle of whisky as fast as possible was a brilliant plan, and as some of the liquid ran down his chin, and he choked a little, Mitchell wasn't even sure that was true any more.

Annie was still talking, but Mitchell had stopped listening. He'd tried tramping up and down all the nearby streets, feeling out along his senses for a hint of where George might be, terrified about what he might feel, what George might be going through, but it hadn't worked. George could have disappeared into thin air, as far as he was able to tell. It had been like walking through a ghost town, the streets deserted, newspapers blowing in the wind. Which given that it was only he and Annie left, wasn't far off the bloody mark.

It was ironic, given how long they had all been stuck inside the place, but Mitchell had come back to drown his sorrows at home. Home is where the heart... Fuck. The cushions still smelled of George.

The doorbell rang. Mitchell was on his feet before he was even aware of it, swaying admittedly, but upright. What next? A herd of tap-dancing elephants? A crazed troupe of dwarves? It was hardly going to be the cavalry. Annie moved forward, cautiously, but it wasn't her kind of Door, just the boring old regular kind. It still had scratches in its paint from a certain stray werewolf. It was their usual doorbell ding-dong too, but it didn't stop Annie throwing the door wide open as though throwing open the door to a lion's cage – and then darting back, as though afraid of being bitten. It crashed into the wall with a large reverberating bang. There was a little girl with pigtails standing on their step, looking very unimpressed.

"Well?" she asked, her accent harsh with the patter of London's East End, "Ain't you going to invite me in?"

She smiled and her mouth showed fangs.

***

 

"Bleeding hell, Mitchell, you've come down in the world a bit, ain'tcher?"

Hetty thrust her glass forward and waggled it a bit. Mitchell obligingly topped up the whisky, while Annie stared, her eyes huge, still processing apparently.

"Are you sure you should...?" she ventured, her voice small and uncertain.

Hetty glared at her. "What? At my age? Four hundred and sixty two. I should bleeding well hope so."

She switched her gimlet gaze to Mitchell, who shrugged. "You've had a bit of a problem here, ain't you? Gang warfare, my arse. I came as soon as I heard."

Carefully, Mitchell said, "That's very kind of you."

"Kindness ain't got nothing to do with it. If the Eldest are walking again, then it's a bit bleeding serious. Worth breaking off a spot of gallivanting in the Americas for the protection of the known civilized world, that kind of malarkey. I can drink pinacoldas another time."

She sniffed, then made a face. It was true, Mitchell thought. It wasn't a very good whisky.

"Who are the Eldest?" he asked, trying for indifferent, suspecting that he failed. Hetty stared at him, amusement making her face almost young again.

"You're kidding me, right? Please tell me Herrick didn't ignore your education to that extent. Whisper in my shell-like that your sense of humour needs an overhaul."

Mitchell shrugged.

Hetty downed her whisky and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "They're different to us - they remember the old country. It's all instinct with them, the burning African sun, the heart of darkness, all that palaver. I thought they were dead."

She got up from the sofa, leant to put her glass down, and then began wandering around the room. Lifting an ornament here, flipping an old menu there. Mitchell looked at her - a little girl, maybe ten, maybe eleven, with eyes like holes in her head, smelling of whisky. He wouldn't want her life - what he had could have been a lot worse. In his maudlin state, it took a little while to notice the difference - he hadn't seen Hetty for years, for decades even, but if there was one thing that characterised her, it was confidence. She'd seen it all before, over and over again. But as he watched her pace he realised her hands were trembling slightly, and that she was trying to disguise it. Once he'd noticed, Mitchell wondered why he hadn't spotted it before.

"What is it?" he asked, abruptly, "Why are you really here? It's not out of the goodness of your heart."

She giggled, a true little girl giggle. "There are some that might say I don't have a heart."

Mitchell waited, and when Annie made to move or say something, he held out his hand, stopping her - watching Hetty.

She stopped pacing eventually and sighed, the glitter of her eyes back to their full malevolence. "All right, I get it. You scratch my back, I scratch yours. I'm not here for you, I admit it. I'm here for them." She smiled, slowly. "Revenge has been a long time coming - four hundred and fifty two years at last count. And I can't deny, I'm a little… nervous. Don't you think it's about time I got to thank Daddy in person? A girl might have abandonment issues after four hundred years."

Mitchell wanted to step back, to get away. She made him feel unpleasant and dirty. He hoped there would be something else left of him after so long - something more than hate. But he was horribly afraid that he'd be no better. He missed George suddenly, with a deep abiding ache. Fuck it.

"I couldn't find them, not in the deep places of the world, and believe me - I looked," said Hetty, "But the shift in power, Herrick's death - we could all feel that. All of us. Even them."

She twitched her coat open, letting them see the lining; rows of pockets sewn in so carefully, precisely, stitching pretty in multicoloured thread, as any girl might like. And then within each pocket there was a knife, or a spike, or a silver-shod stake, all made to fit the hand of a child. Hetty licked her lips.

"They've been attracted to a place of uncertainty, of change - drawn to the chaos. I couldn't find them before, but it's different now. I know Bristol - none better."

She pulled out a well-worn stiletto and fondled it like a toy.

"I know where the bastards are hiding."

***

 

"Mitchell, have you really thought about this?" Annie asked, "You don't know what you're walking into, it could be a trap."

She was holding his hands, and she was muttering close to his face, not shouting like he knew she wanted to. Her presence so close to him was a cool breeze, almost like a breath. Hetty was in the living room, and they were in the kitchen for an illusion of privacy, although Mitchell decided not to tell Annie that at her age, Hetty could probably hear a hummingbird fart on the other side of the world. He thought that Annie could do without that knowledge right now.

"I know it could be a trap. I expect it is a trap. I plan on it being a trap," he explained, and pressed her hands. Trust me, he tried to ask without words.

Of course, he knew it was a trap. George was special, presumably that was why the Eldest had taken him. It made sense that they would also expect somebody to want him back.

Annie looked dubious and put her head on one side. "So what's different? What's going to stop them turning you into cat food? Little Miss Bossy Boots in there? She's crazy! Just one of them could eat her like a tasty snack!"

Mitchell tried not to wince. Still, that was old habits dying hard - he had no real need to pander to Hetty any more, now that the whole of the Bristol nest was destroyed, it hardly mattered. And Annie was right, he had no more idea of how to deal with the Eldest now than he did when they took George. He tried to smile in a reassuring manner.

"It'll be ok, I promise," he said, and hugged her so she couldn't see his eyes.

Later, standing with Hetty outside the iron grill at the entrance to Redcliffe Caves, she nudged him in a companionable manner, like one of his men might have done on the eve of a Big Push, sharing a confidence that wouldn't be remembered when morning came.

"You don't expect to come back, do yer?" She sniffed, and rolled her shoulders, preparing in her own way. "Not my business, of course, but not telling your ghostly girlfriend was the coward's way out. You better not break in there, or I'll gut you myself."

Mitchell glanced down at her deceptively fragile form. "I won't break," he said, and tore the grill out of the wall.

The Redcliffe Caves had been mines once. As they began making their way inside Mitchell could still see the marks of tools on the walls. There was no rhyme or reason to the layout as the miners had presumably just followed the line that gave them the best deposits. The plaque outside had told him as much - all of these twisting turning tunnels had been dug to provide sand to the glass trade, over several centuries. But it was abandoned now and the darkness was thick and old, and getting deeper, the dull red of the sandstone that gave this place its name swallowing any real remaining light.

But being able to see in the dark was one of a vampire's first tricks, along with all the other senses that ended up enhanced. Mitchell stopped and let himself adjust to the lack of light, letting it enfold him and caress him, becoming familiar with it, treating it like an old friend. The smell of the place, damp and earth and metal, all breathing from the walls, gave him an extra dimension, and the feel of the air currents as they stirred, added to the image. His eyes snapped open, black as the air itself, he knew. And Hetty's too, as she waited for him impatiently in the darkness. They were ready.

At first, Mitchell followed Hetty. She seemed to know the place, could take them deep into the hillside with confidence and certainty. He wondered vaguely as he followed her pattering footsteps, how long ago had she come here? Had she seen the mines at the height of their industry? Was this her youth she was revisiting? But soon enough she faltered, her steps becoming slower, more tentative. Mitchell could see her head shaking, as though dislodging a fly, or throwing off a headache. He pushed forward until they were standing side by side again.

"My turn," he said, and shut his eyes.

Everything immediately became sharper and more distinct. The passages branched and twisted back on themselves, but Mitchell could use all of his senses now, and he knew he could stroll back to the surface if needs be, as though on a broad highway. But that wasn't what he wanted. He knew the two of them were in the right place, he could tell somehow, without any sound or scent to make him certain - when he relaxed, and let all his longing for George, all his fear, and worry, and love, point him where he most needed to go, the path was easy.

He could hear Hetty sniff again, in reluctant appreciation, he assumed, but he couldn't let himself think about her, or care, as his steady tread carried him forwards, his boots scuffing up red mud and tramping through puddles. There was a barrier, Mitchell thought, a sort of mental firewall, something to keep strangers outside and away - a kind of SEP field, George would call it. The thought made Mitchell smile. Then, abruptly, it just fell away, as though they'd breached it, or their antagonist had given up and let them in. Hetty huffed and her steps gained confidence again. Mitchell just couldn't stop smiling.

It didn't matter where in the world they tried to hide him, Mitchell would always know where to find George. He was confident now, he'd got the trick of it, and best of all, he was sure that George was still alive. He wasn't certain how, but Mitchell thought he'd always know from now on. He hadn't realised until that second, how much of his black mood had been to do with just not knowing. As he strode along, almost as though they were casually strolling along a bustling thoroughfare, not penetrating a dangerous lair, he turned his face, as though towards the sun, towards George, and then stopped. Here. He was here. Mitchell opened his eyes.

There was candlelight. It transported the caves back in time, to the days when men in breeches and shirtsleeves laboured long under the ground. The smell of burning wax was hot and dry, mixing with the dampness, and the rich, ripe odour of the Eldest themselves. Mitchell tried not to cough, their scent catching the back of his throat as always. He tried not to swear either, as he took in the sight before him. There were dozens of hunched shapes, possibly more. Mitchell swallowed and tried not to let his heart jump too much. His fangs itched, ready for battle. He was poised on the balls of his feet, ready to move at the slightest hint of an opponent, but not one of them made any kind of hostile move. Mitchell was scanning for George, knowing he was here, but being unable to see him, until suddenly, their hulking forms parted enough to allow him to see George's pale skin, glimpsed through the crowd.

Mitchell made a sound then, unable to help himself, because there was far too much skin on show. George had been dragged off dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, shirt loose over the top. But he wasn't wearing any of it any more. He was as naked as the day he was born, as bare and vulnerable as he was once a month waiting for the change - as naked as he was the next morning when Mitchell took his stolen mouthfuls, suckling at George's wounds, stealing his blood to fuel his own obsession.

Mitchell thought he'd been angry before, but this - this was different. He could feel rage pooling in his belly, and fizzing in his blood - and if it was fuelled by just a hint of guilt, well, he wasn't about to let that stop him. George's eyes were closed, he was unconscious, his body slumped limply in the grasp of these monsters, and it was hard to tell in the candlelight, which caused shadows to flicker and shift and his eyesight to doubt itself, which had been so very clear in the dark - but Mitchell rather thought he saw marks all over his body, pink and wet, as though he'd been... fed on.

He growled, and the crowd in front of him shivered, like a row of saplings in a strong breeze. He heard dimly, as though from very far away, a small hiccupping giggle, like a real child, and then the clink of metal. Mitchell felt strong and invincible, filled with a righteous rage - he would tear them apart, he would get his revenge and rescue George, he would die for him. The Eldest made noises then, soft moans, and whispers, coughing grunts, as though they were trying for language, but had forgotten what it was for, or how to speak it. It was eerie, and made Mitchell feel more lonely than solitude would, as though he were facing beasts, or monsters, not thinking beings. And that made him even angrier, because he had been trying so hard, and now here, in extremis, he was losing again all the humanity he had once thought to regain.

It was Hetty who attacked first. That knowledge pleased Mitchell in some small way - he had been an officer in the Great War, he knew how to charge a faceless impregnable enemy, but he also knew that tactically, the first to move would probably inevitably be cut down. He didn't want to waste his death. But he wasn't more than a second or two behind her as he made for the centre of the room, where their crowd was thickest, heading straight for George. Hetty was so small Mitchell immediately lost track of her, but there was a metallic chime, as a blade might make scraping along a stake; Mitchell thought he could track her by that and the inevitable screams.

He lashed out himself, his vision turning red, his arms outstretched, his fingers curled tight into fists, but hit only empty air. He whirled seeking a target, his jacket flaring at the speed, but every opponent seemed to melt away, his blows only meeting empty air. He thought they were trying to lure him in, and let them, because he didn't expect to escape, but at least he could die at George's side, and that was something. That was more than something, that was everything. If he lived long enough he might even be able to get George to the door, or help him escape, wishful thinking, Mitchell knew, but it was comfort.

He still hadn't landed a blow when he bumped into something warm and solid, which was shocking in its intensity. It was as though his anger was interrupted, as though a switch had been thrown, like icy water pouring into his mind. Everything suddenly became clear, a crash of reality, and Mitchell groped behind him to George, who was lying on some rough sort of table, and held on to him, his flesh slightly slippery with sweat perhaps, but so very real and alive.

The Eldest were still not attacking. Now his mind was clear Mitchell found it stranger than ever, and he stood and watched them, as they milled in front of him. He tried to think of a practical way he could get past them, but it still seemed impossible. He was even able to wonder what had just happened, what had brought him to his senses like this, as his gaze flickered from one to another.

Then the crowd shifted and one in particular stepped forward. It was an indistinct movement, fluid and organic, but still a representative appeared to have been chosen - or tearing him into small pieces was the special privilege of the leader, it was difficult to say. Mitchell gripped George harder, hard enough to bruise perhaps, willing him to wake up. He missed him, and if he was going to die, Mitchell was selfish enough to want George there for it. He glanced behind him, then looked again. The slippery fluid that he'd taken for sweat wasn't just that. There were little pinprick holes all over George, and they were oozing, just a little blood, to lie and mix and twist out onto his skin, patterning him like some crazy tribal idol. Mitchell couldn't even count them - the bites were so numerous, overlaying each other, but carefully, as though planned, there was no tearing of the flesh, but there was still horror in it, in imagining all of these creatures with their hands on George, their mouths, all stroking him and feeding from him. Mitchell's gorge rose, and he scrabbled frantically at George himself, checking for a pulse, for a sign that George would be able to survive this. How much blood had been taken? No wonder his skin was so pale.

There was a harsh coughing sound then, that came from the leader, as though clearing a throat that had not spoken in centuries, and for all Mitchell knew, that was the kind of time span they were talking about. He left George behind him, solid against his thighs, and glared at him, preparing to attack.

"Thine Consort, he is not harmed. He is... recovered. He recovered us. He..." The creature appeared to lose the use of his words. "We regret... We regret the need... We need..."

There was another ripple, as though an unspoken communication was shivering through the mass of them. Their leader stared at Mitchell through a helmet of hair caked in mud and other darker substances. But his one white visible eye looked more intelligent than Mitchell had thought any of them capable of being.

"He is thine, cannot be ours, but he can... He... We ask that thee allow him to burgeon others, for us. Thee can understand our need... Thee feed... Thee understand."

Their leader held out a hand, as a supplicant, Mitchell thought. He struggled to understand what they were asking him - what did they mean? What did they want?

"We cannot return to the mud and the madness. We want to live. We need the Wolf to tame our Demon. Yea, dost thee understand? Surely, thee and thine Consort? Thee must understand!"

There was a note of despair now, a desperation in the air. The Eldest were swaying, in the grip of some strong emotion, and Mitchell prepared to defend George again because it seemed as if things might be turning ugly.

Then there was a scream, a childish sound not so much of agony, but rather of frustration and anger, beyond all natural limits. Mitchell recognised it, and flinched, just a little. It seemed that Hetty had been captured. She was dragged out into the middle of the cave, at least three of them holding her down. She had caused them wounds, and a dark thick fluid, which Mitchell assumed must be blood, was coursing from their arms, and faces. But there was no anger in them, that Mitchell could see, no appearance of retribution, and it surprised him. All his people, from the slaughter in the funeral parlour, had damage as if from frenzied attacks. These creatures were tamed now, it seemed, or at least holding themselves in check. It made no sense.

Their leader was looking at Hetty, and then he lowered his eyes, as if the sight of her hurt him in some way. He motioned his fellows forward, and before Mitchell could react, or do more than raise a hand, he had been seized by limbs that seemed as tough and as unyielding as tree trunks. He was drawn away from George's side, and could not fight it. He could only look on in despair as the leader bent and carefully bit George, causing more blood to flow in a thin stream down his thigh. Hetty was brought to George then, and her mouth lowered to the wound. She tried to fight at first, holding herself back, but Mitchell could see the fight being lost as the addictive smell of fresh blood overcame any remaining scruples. She licked at the blood like a cat might lick at cream, both delicate and animalistic. She would have torn into him, Mitchell knew, if she had been given the chance, but she was being carefully restrained. It was a small mercy, as he watched his George being suckled upon, and being unable to do anything about it. The hands of the Eldest bit into his own flesh, as Mitchell strained and fought to be free.

At last, Hetty was drawn away, and George was left alone. She was set upon her own feet then, in front of their leader, and Mitchell waited for her to take such an opportunity to exercise both her anger and her array of toys. It never came.

Instead, the leader sighed, deep and tremulously, and said, "Daughter, pray thee accept my sorrow and my apologee. I never meant to sire thee, and I never meant to leave thee to this world all these ages, all alone. For we had been driven mad, and all that we knew was the madness. Truly, we would have cared for thee, and taught thee, if only we had had our Consorts. But we had been torn rudely from our homes, and all the ancient wisdom was lost, and drowned, and we were bereft."

Mitchell watched as Hetty stared, and did not attack, did not launch herself at his throat, did not hiss her intentions and her hunger both. He realised that some part of him wanted her to, that he felt betrayed because she wasn't still a creature of blood and revenge and nothing more. Because she was staring up at the Eldest as though she were really a child.

"The blood of this Wolf cannot be for us. He is not our Consort, child. But thee has been long in the world. Thee must know of others." He looked across at Mitchell then, a proud sort of pleading in his eyes. "If thou dost not know of others then we shall return to the madness and we shall be lost. And the world shall be lost with us."

Her voice when she spoke at last was small and piping. There was a tremor to it that Mitchell had never heard.

"If I find you more of the dirty wolves, will you stay with me, Daddy? Will you stay with me forever?"

The Eldest stared into her eyes and Mitchell swallowed, hard. There was moisture there, heavy black fluid rolling down his filthy cheek. "I shall. I vow to thee, my daughter, that my eternity will be all thine own, to do with as thy will."

And he folded her up in his embrace, mud-caked fingers curving protectively around her small shoulders, and she hugged him back, and did not care who saw.

***

 

Epilogue

"So what you're telling me - and stop me if I get this wrong - that when I was dragged underground and virtually gang-raped by a bunch of senile vampires, I was actually saving the world?"

George looked bemused at this, rather than appalled, rather than horrified or in shock. Mitchell counted it a win. They were sitting close together on the terracotta spoil tips outside of Redcliffe Caves, Mitchell's jacket was around George's shoulders, some unearthed coveralls sheathing his lower half. Mitchell could count every breath George took, could feel every slide of George's shoulder next to his own through the thin cotton of his t-shirt. He rubbed his hands together, the wool of his fingerless gloves squeaking high in a bat's register. George grabbed his fingers to still them, and his hands were warm and soft and alive.

"Fuck," said Mitchell, and started shaking.

"Hey, it's all right!" said George, holding on and blinking, looking more naked without his glasses than he ever did without his clothes.

Mitchell turned George's hands over and examined the back of them. Every inch of George's body had been covered in bites, there hadn't been any skin that was unblemished, that could now be Mitchell's alone. But it didn't matter. The bites were healing already, only one or two had been deep or really torn the skin, the first ones, Mitchell had speculated, and after that the tamed Eldest had regulated the process. A mouthful or two, no more. Like he himself took on the full moon. He felt ashamed.

"Look, there's something I have to tell you..." he began, and then stopped, tingling all over, as George launched himself at Mitchell, agressively pushing into his personal space, all grabby hands and fingers impatiently scrabbling to get at skin. Then his mouth was on Mitchell's, hot and wonderful, despite being slightly askew, the sensation almost overwhelming - the taste of him and feel of him, so George, all passion and awkwardness, eagerly stroking against his tongue. He wanted to ask, are you sure, are you really sure? Mitchell's hands hovered, and then came down uncertainly on George's shoulders, before giving in at last and tugging him closer, and then closer still. They were both gasping when they finally broke apart, Mitchell resting his forehead on George's and breathing him in. There was that awful wild stink of the Eldest, but there was George too underneath, solid and smelling of home.

"So, is that how it's going to be now?" asked Mitchell trying for casual, and missing by a mile. George was smiling, that slightly sideways grin of his, the one that meant he couldn't really believe his good luck. His eyes were like stars.

"Well, once we've found enough werewolves to save the world - but it should be ok, yeah? There's Nina..." George's voice didn't hitch at all, Mitchell noted with happiness. "And Tully, and - what's that girl's name? - Amy McBride."

"And we can bring back the rest of my people once the Eldest are all sane again - apparently you can bleed on a vampire's bones and if you're not actually dust, it brings you back. Who knew?"

"And Annie can help us search for more werewolves - there must be others, right? Maybe she can mobilise the whole ghost network to look..."

"And so that is how it's going to be, isn't it, George?"

There was a pause. They were filthy and George was pale and faintly trembling from blood loss, but also somehow luminous, his mouth unable to stop smiling. Mitchell just couldn't stop touching him, couldn't believe how things had turned out in the end.

"Nah," said George, "Let's go watch the Real Hustle. Let's go home."


End file.
